


Almost Alternative Lust

by nuclearfootball



Series: Bridges Freeze Before Roadway [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclearfootball/pseuds/nuclearfootball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending to "Almost Unnameable Lust." If you read that it's pretty obvious where the timeline splits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. oh there is no use

**Author's Note:**

> Want a happier ending? Here ya go!!!!!

PHONE CALL  
Normally he hates boring cases. A case his team can figure out without him might as well be no case at all; usually he indulges in a good tirade over why they wasted their time with it in the first place.  
  
But today it’s just peachy, actually. It’s simple but labor-intensive enough to keep them occupied and arguing amongst themselves, leaving him free to daydream and wonder what he should pick up for supper.  
  
He’s bounced his tenth rubber band off Kutner’s forehead when his cell phone rings; the others barely look up as he hurries out of the room.  
  
“Hey,” he says as casually as he can; he‘s been feeling a bit nervous since their conversations the day before. Well, truthfully, he’s been actively having to ignore how nervous he’s been feeling, which makes it doubly difficult to keep his voice nonchalant.  
  
“House?” Wilson says shakily.  
  
“Yeah?” Wilson sounds a million miles away, literally and figuratively; House forgets how nervous he‘s not being over last night, and starts not being nervous about right now. “What’s up? …Is something wrong?”  
  
“I, uh….I’m going to be getting in a bit later than I thought,” Wilson says. “The roads are bad….I think I need to take it slowly for awhile.” He’s speaking slowly, like he’s choosing each word with tremendous care.  
  
“Where are you now?” House asks.  
  
“I’m…still a couple of hours away from the New Jersey border, at least, at this rate. I just…I didn’t want you to worry. I’ll try--try to be home by dark.”  
  
“I should hope so,” House says, probably sounding much more annoyed than he means to. It’s not that he’s annoyed, he’s just--confused. Because Wilson seems confused, and House has no idea why _Wilson_ is confused, and well it is kind of annoying to not know things like that but-- “But take your time. Be careful, okay?” he adds quickly, looking around his empty office. He’s not sure if he’s more concerned about someone witnessing his carelessness or his caring.  
  
“I will…I’ll see you later.”  
  
After they hang up House sits at his desk, thinking about a Volvo sliding on an icy Pennsylvania road.  
  
He slams his cane on the floor until the image clears his head.  
  
He’s going to damn well _have_ to make this case interesting for a few hours, at least.  
  
  
RETURN  
House lies on the couch, an unread magazine in his hand, trying not to re-re-calculate Wilson’s route home from the conference.  
  
It’s been tough this weekend, without Wilson; tough to keep the fairly innocuous feelings of missing him _now_ from stirring up the horrible feelings of missing him _then_ \-- feelings he still has no desire to confront.  
  
There’s really no _reason_ to confront them, anyway. When he thought Wilson had truly left him, it was like a physical pain that wouldn’t go away; and it made House realize -- or, perhaps, acknowledge -- things that made the pain so much worse.  
  
But Wilson had come back, because…because he loved House, truly loved him in ways House had never understood; and House is determined to not make the same mistakes that almost drove him away before.  
  
All this change, and these _feelings_ \-- it’s hard shit to deal with, and most of the time he doesn’t really deal with it. He just lets Wilson be, figuring that less meddling equals better … something.  
  
Even though Wilson is distant sometimes, and clearly in distress; House will stay nearby, and try to show Wilson that he’s there if Wilson wants to use him as a distraction, but he doesn’t force himself into Wilson’s thoughts.  
  
He’s trying, really he is.  
  
His watch beeps; six o’clock. Wilson should have been home by now.  
  
He tosses the magazine on the coffee table in frustration, balling his fists against the urge to grab his cell phone again. Every time he’s called, Wilson has said he’s “getting there,” “just being careful,” weird stuff like that.  
  
_What the fuck could be wrong?_ Now House is going stupid with insecure shit; Wilson fucked someone else at the conference -- best-case scenario he’s feeling guilty, worst-case scenario he’s packing up his shit when he gets back.  
  
He’s trying not to get angry. Most likely Wilson is upset over something that’s completely lame and harmless, and stupid to everyone but Wilson; and it would be best if House were understanding and loving and crap like that.  
  
Because House _does_ love him. That’s why his brain won’t fucking shut up--  
  
_Finally_ a key turns in the lock.  
  
Wilson enters the apartment, looking like he’s been through hell; he drops his bag and sees House on the couch, probably looking rather haggard himself.  
  
House opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t know what he wants to say or what Wilson needs to hear, and besides Wilson is hurrying over too quickly for him to probably say much anyway.  
  
Wilson collapses on top of him, attacking his open mouth with his own; his entire weight presses into House, not out of dominance but of desperation.  
  
His hands are everywhere, in House’s hair, along his sides and chest and even ghosting purposefully along his scarred thigh, and for some crazy reason House finds this endearing and not enraging.  
  
But it does wake him up enough to grab Wilson’s head just firmly enough to pull him back and say “ _Wilson_.”  
  
Wilson clearly does not want to stop what he’s doing. He lets his head sag where House is holding it, his eyes closed. He starts to shake.  
  
“Wilson, what is wrong?” He massages Wilson’s temples to try to keep _himself_ from shaking. “Trust me, I’m more than willing to continue, but--”  
  
“I was almost in a car accident,” Wilson interrupts. He speaks quickly, with his eyes still closed. “And it just…messed with me. It was _really_ close. I didn’t want to tell you so you wouldn’t worry. I was afraid to drive too fast after that, and I was all freaked out which made it worse, and…and so I’m just really…relieved to be home.”  
  
He looks into House’s eyes when he’s done, and House can see the fear and relief there; screw that, he can _feel_ it coming off Wilson in waves.  
  
He holds Wilson to him, and Wilson clutches him, still shaking.  
  
He doesn’t give the accident itself much thought. The knee-jerk cynicism in House figures Wilson is overreacting more than a little bit; plus the idea itself is not a pleasant one to dwell on. So _discussing_ the incident is pretty much out...  
  
But Wilson is clearly distraught, and this is a prime opportunity to show (with no risk!) how much House values him. And that can be shown physically, especially since Wilson is still panting and--kind of squirming against him, which is weird, but…  
  
This is all very weird, but that’s all right. Sometimes things are weird.  
  
He loosens his grip on Wilson, who promptly pulls back and kisses him again, with just as much force as before; it’s almost as if House hadn’t even interrupted.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Twenty minutes later they’re in roughly in same position, except they’re naked and in bed; and House has given up trying to get any kind of upper hand.  
  
Wilson clearly wants to be in control; and considering the day he’s had, that’s fine. House just had thought maybe it would be nice to pamper Wilson…considering that day he’d had; but judging by the reaction when he runs his hands along Wilson’s sides or his tongue along Wilson’s anywhere, he can be plenty appreciated from where he is.  
  
Wilson is fumbling with the lubricant when House gets that weird feeling again. He gently runs a hand along Wilson’s arm. “Hey, are you sure you’re okay?”  
  
Wilson’s head snaps up, but his expression softens quickly. “Yeah.”  
  
House watches Wilson’s hand shake as he pours more than enough lube onto his open palm; before Wilson can do anything else House grabs his hand, gently smearing the cold gel onto his own fingers.  
  
He warms it briefly before reaching back between Wilson’s spreading legs; his hands are braced on House’s chest, bearing down as two of House’s fingers push inside of him. House doesn’t notice the extra pressure on his chest, though; no more so than he notices the weight of Wilson‘s thighs against his own, or the weight of Wilson’s gaze when he moves his other had up to Wilson’s face.  
  
“House…” Wilson says, moving his hips.  
  
They barely break eye contact as House quickly spreads some of the gel on himself, then holds himself steady as Wilson finds the right angle and then lowers himself with a sharp intake of breath.  
  
House holds Wilson’s hips and groans; the sound is abruptly swallowed by Wilson, who has leaned forward with a kiss and a rather animalistic noise of his own. He presses his hips down as hard as he can without hurting House, who is starting to tremble.  
  
“Wilson, please…”  
  
Wilson rests his forehead against House’s. “I just need to feel you for a minute,” he says quietly, moving his hips slightly and clenching his muscles.  
  
House cries out, his fingernails digging into Wilson’s thighs.  
  
After seconds or minutes or, more likely, an hour, Wilson starts to really move, his back hunched, moaning into House’s neck.  
  
House tries to match his rhythm but again finds himself along for the ride, making vague noises against Wilson’s skin, running his hands through Wilson’s shaggy hair.  
  
Soon Wilson is making sounds that are almost painful, and House reaches between them for his cock, keeping his other hand in Wilson’s hair when Wilson pushes himself up on his hands to look down at him.  
  
“House…” Wilson says, his hips thrusting automatically between House’s cock and hand. His eyes are glazed over but he keeps them on House’s face as he comes, hard, splashing House’s upper chest with a shout.  
  
He’s still trembling when he braces himself for House, who starts to pound into him steadily from below. “Wilson--” he says in a strangled voice.  
  
Wilson smiles slightly and House seizes with a grunt and a relaxed moan as his most powerful orgasm in recent memory washes over him.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
Wilson sprawls across him while they catch their breath, his cheek resting against House’s racing heart. “Miss me?” he asks.  
  
_You weren’t even gone very long,_ House thinks, but he answers with complete honesty. “Like crazy.”  
  
  
  
FOUR HOURS  
  
House opens his eyes to sunlight.  
  
He’s thinking to himself how odd it is that Wilson’s morning ditherings didn’t wake him up when he realizes why that’s not odd at all; Wilson’s still in bed next to him.  
  
“Hey,” he says groggily, pushing against Wilson‘s back. “ _Wilson._ “  
  
Wilson grunts in reply.  
  
“It’s almost nine.”  
  
Another grunt.  
  
House’s hand hovers above Wilson’s still form. “Don’t you need to get up?” _Shouldn’t you be leaping comically out of bed waving your pocketwatch around at this point?_  
  
“I’m not going to work today.”  
  
House sits back. “Oh.” He thinks back; had Wilson planned to take off time after the conference? He doesn’t think so…and still, even on vacation Wilson wasn’t one to stay in bed past six.  
  
Not knowing what else to do, he feels Wilson’s forehead.  
  
“I’m fine, House,” Wilson mumbles. “Just tired. Go on without me.”  
  
House reluctantly goes about his morning rituals, even slower than usual, looking in on Wilson every few minutes. He doesn’t move, though by the time House is about to leave his eyes are open, staring at the wall.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay home?” House asks.  
  
“I can’t ask you to do that,” Wilson says softly, not meeting House’s eye.  
  
“Of course you can,” House says, almost angrily. “I’m your--” He almost says _friend_ , which isn’t enough, but he doesn’t know what to say instead, and then it’s too late to say anything, and there’s a weird silence.  
  
Wilson finds House’s hand and squeezes it. “I just feel a little drained from the weekend,” he says. “I’ll be all right.”  
  
House is unsure, but if Wilson’s urging him to go maybe he should just go…though he decides right then that he’ll come home early, whatever’s happening at the hospital. Something’s not right _here_ , and he needs to be here to figure it out, not that…not that Wilson is a _case_ to figure out, Wilson’s not--  
  
_Okay! Time to leave._  
  
He says goodbye and swallows three pills on the way out the door to push away the gathering storm clouds in his head.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
He manages to escape the hospital in under four hours, a personal best.  
  
When he gets home there’s a package leaning against the door; it’s addressed to Wilson. He can’t help but glance at the return address, and--it’s _from_ Wilson, too.  
  
_What the hell?_  
  
He carries it with him to the bedroom but drops it, and everything else, when he see Wilson.  
  
Wilson is sprawled haphazardly on his side, taking up most of the bed; and the sheets underneath him are bloody.  
  
They’re not _soaked_ in blood, but the presence of any blood at all is enough to make House practically jump onto the bed.  
  
“Wilson!” he yells, turning him onto his back. He can see at least two sources of the blood right away -- one cut along Wilson’s right clavicle and another along the inside of his right arm. They don’t look deep enough to require stitches, but they were done on purpose and _what the fuck is going on_ \--  
  
Wilson grunts and opens his eyes just enough to register House’s presence. “Hmm? House? Wha…Are you home….What time is it?” He looks at his wrist, apparently having forgotten he never got dressed for work.  
  
House turns Wilson’s head. “Wilson, look at me. What happened? _What did you do?_ “ It’s hard to keep his voice even.  
  
Wilson can only hold eye contact for one-second increments. “I took some sleeping pills, thought I would be able to clean this up before you got home.” His eyes slide shut and House has to shake him. “What! I only took enough to _sleep_ , I swear.”  
  
House frowns. “What are you talking about? And what about--?” He traces a finger gently along the cut on Wilson’s neck.  
  
“Oooooooh,” Wilson says groggily. “Yeah I did that so I would have no choice but to tell you….But yeah I thought I would be _awake_ …” His eyes don’t close but he’s almost asleep again.  
  
House’s mind is struggling to stay on the track. “ _Tell me what._ Wilson, please--”  
  
Wilson slumps forward. “Maybe it should wait…”  
  
“No!” House snaps. “Tell me what the fuck is going on!”  
  
Wilson’s eyes snap open, and House’s heart sinks. He hadn’t meant to wake Wilson up like _that_ \-- “I’m sorry…” He presses Wilson’s forehead to his. He doesn’t know what else to do; he doesn’t know what’s happening and he doesn’t know what to do.  
  
“The accident,” Wilson says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.  
  
“…The accident?” House echoes.  
  
Wilson hesitates. “It wasn’t one.”  
  
House says nothing, but doesn’t look away as Wilson keeps talking.  
  
“I was going to drive off the bridge. I wanted to drive off the bridge. But at the last second I stopped, for some reason.” A smile pulls at Wilson’s tired features. “Okay that’s not fair, I stopped because of you, I’ve always stopped because of you…”  
  
Wilson’s eyes are closing again. House doesn’t know what to think, much less what to say.  
  
“Read the notebook, it might help, or not…I need to sleep a bit longer…” House lets him lie back down, and he’s asleep almost immediately.  
  
_Notebook?_ House thinks dumbly. On a hunch, he retrieves the package; inside is the notebook he recognizes as the one Wilson took out of his messenger bag before he left for the conference.  
  
_The messenger bag._ On a hunch, his stomach fills with acid.  
  
He slides off the bed, knocking Wilson’s box cutter off in the process; he curses and shoves it in his pocket.  
  
Before he puts down the notebook, he pulls out a postcard that’s sticking out of it like a bookmark; it must be from the hotel Wilson stayed at.  
  
He turns it over to see if anything’s written on it.  
  
_House,  
  
I’m so sorry.  
  
It’s better this way.  
  
I love you.  
  
-Wilson._  
  
House stares at it for a few minutes--maybe more--and slowly, horribly, it all becomes real.  
  
He’s holding a suicide note.  
  
He’s holding Wilson’s suicide note.  
  
There’s a stamp on the postcard, like Wilson was just going to mail that but then decided he wanted House to know more, and sent the whole notebook instead…  
  
…but House can’t look at the notebook, not right now. He drops it and goes to the living room for the messenger bag.  
  
He doesn’t look in the bag, just reaches inside; his hand closes around the grip of what he knew in his gut was there, and his veins fill with ice.  
  
_He pictures Wilson with this gun to his head,  
  
upside down in a car filling with water,  
  
bleeding to death from a wound in his throat,  
  
alone and wanting to die while his best friend saw nothing…._  
  
House shoves the box cutter inside the bag and shoves it behind a pile of stuff that hasn’t been touched in years in one of the cabinets; it’s not perfect but he doesn’t plan on letting Wilson out of his sight for long anytime soon anyway--  
  
He returns to the bedroom with bandages and ointment, and patches Wilson up while he’s still sleeping. _Seven fucking cuts…_  
  
Probably won’t hurt if saltwater gets in a few of them.


	2. in loving the dying. i have tried,

PANIC  
  
House doesn’t _want_ to be hurting Wilson like this, but he doesn’t see that he has a choice.  
  
When Wilson had stumbled off of the bed, House had stumbled with him; and with the way he’d fallen on his leg, he’d never be able to catch up with Wilson before he fled the apartment.  
  
And he could _not_ let Wilson leave the apartment.  
  
Wilson is still trying to pull away, and House digs his fingers tighter into one of the wounds on his arm. But the panic is overriding the pain, and Wilson just wants to undo the last few hours.  
  
“Wilson,” House says, in as even a voice as he can manage under the circumstances, “please stay. I want you to stay. There’s no reason for you to leave.”  
  
Of all the reactions House had anticipated when Wilson awoke, such a massive panic attack had not been one of them. He’d feared possible remorse on Wilson’s part, of course…it couldn’t have been easy to tell House what he did.  
  
Well, of course not, if he’d been living with it for so long. Jesus, nothing could have been easy for him if--  
  
House has to put everything out of his mind except keeping Wilson here, _now_. If Wilson leaves he will surely act, and House’s mind still hasn’t even _begun_ to even process such a thing.  
  
As it becomes clear that Wilson is not going to free himself from House’s grip, he relaxes slightly. But when he finally speaks, he says, “You should let me go.”  
  
House doesn’t say anything at first; and though he knows it may be cruel, he plays the only card he can think of at this crazy fucked-up moment.  
  
“You would leave me?”  
  
He swears he can see Wilson deflate. “That’s not fair,” he whispers.  
  
“Do you know what it would do to me?” For the second time within the hour, House feels tears welling in his eyes; but fuck it, it can only help. “Do you even care?”  
  
Wilson stares into his eyes, and House sees the despair transform into a rage the likes of which he’s never seen in the many years of their tumultuous relationship.  
  
_“You don’t know what it’s been like!_ “ he half-screams, half-hisses, finally breaking loose of House’s grip. But he doesn’t flee; he just pushes himself back against the wall. “How I’ve _loved_ you, loved you until it made me sick with need -- and how I’ve _hated_ you, hated you because you gave me a reason to live!”  
  
He’s shaking, his eye twitching, and all House can do is sit there frozen. “And you never saw any of it. You never--”  
  
“So why did you tell me now?”  
  
Wilson briefly looks pissed off at being interrupted, but then he closes his eyes and gently hits his head against the wall a few times. “After I didn’t drive off the bridge, it just seemed like the thing to do I guess. See what happened.” He sighs, hitting his head harder. “But I shouldn’t have.”  
  
House again has to push the incomprehensible image of Wilson in that falling car out of his head. “I’m…glad you did.”  
  
Wilson scoffs. “You’ll leave me soon enough.”  
  
House frowns. “Wilson…”  
  
“Nothing lasts, right?”  
  
“Do you really think…I mean…after all we’ve been through?” House stammers. He’s already thrown, and now Wilson is saying this--? “…And do you really think I won’t do everything in my power to help you--?”  
  
“I don’t want help,” Wilson says curtly.  
  
“But--”  
  
“Oh, don’t _you_ preach to me about getting help!” Wilson snaps.  
  
House is lost. Wilson has always been the sensible one; or at least he’s always _acted_ like the sensible one. If he doesn’t want to get help, either House will have to convince him or spend the next twenty years constantly worrying about him.  
  
Because House is _not_ leaving him, dammit, nor is he letting Wilson leave him.  
  
  
  
NEED  
  
Cuddy easily gives them the rest of the week off, when she learns that House is nursing Wilson through the stomach bug that he apparently told her he had in order to stay home that day.  
  
House simply agrees that yes, that is what he is doing. He can hear how pleased she is; she’s been subtly delighted ever since they reconciled.  
  
Of course, she doesn’t know how _far_ they’ve reconciled…no one does. It’s an unspoken thing, to keep it just between them.  
  
House isn’t really sure why it’s been that way, but he’s glad for it now.  
  
It’s getting dark, and Wilson has been sitting on the couch for the past hour, just staring.  
  
“…Hey,” he says tentatively, hovering next to the couch. “Do you feel like going to bed?”  
  
Wilson looks up at him, and the look in his eyes is so disturbing House momentarily loses his breath. “Yeah,” Wilson says dully, then heads for the bedroom without waiting for House.  
  
Having spent all day in his sleeping attire, Wilson simply lies down and stares at the ceiling. House changes and lies down next to him, unsure if he should touch him, or hold him.  
  
He _wants_ to, badly, but--  
  
He’s startled when Wilson climbs on top of him, almost suffocating him with a kiss.  
  
“Wilson,” he stammers into the kiss, “what--”  
  
Wilson doesn’t stop; he runs a hand up House’s T-shirt, grinds his hips against House’s, moves his mouth down to suck at House’s neck.  
  
“Wilson!” House snaps breathlessly, grabbing at his arms. “Stop. This isn’t…I don’t--”  
  
Wilson looks down at him, and House can _see_ the love and desire and, more than anything, the fatigue written across his face. “House,” he says shakily, “this is what I need right now.  
  
I need _you_.”  
  
House threads his hands through Wilson’s shaggy hair. Maybe he’s still coming to terms with what Wilson’s told him; Wilson’s coming to terms with it too. And maybe he’ll be able to help Wilson, and maybe he won’t…but if Wilson needs him, and this -- if Wilson has been needing him _all these years_ and House has been so clueless -- well House can damn well give that to him.  
  
He pulls Wilson’s head down, kissing him with a whimper.  
  
Despite the residual ache in his leg from earlier, he pushes Wilson onto his back, barely breaking the kiss. Wilson holds onto him desperately as House pushes his legs apart in order to bring their erections into perfect alignment.  
  
House pulls back to look down at Wilson, who stares open-mouthed as House pumps his hips against his. Their pajama bottoms are so thin that neither one of them even bothers to pull them down; they don’t want to stop long enough to do so anyway.  
  
It shouldn’t feel so good, just rubbing together like this.  
  
But Wilson’s here,  
  
and he’s alive,  
  
and he’s looking up at him with those eyes--  
  
Then those eyes close when Wilson comes first, his back arching, letting out a short cry.  
  
House presses his face against Wilson’s neck and moans, wrapping his arms around Wilson and shaking with his own release.  
  
They lie there for as long as House can keep himself from crushing Wilson, then House moves to the side.  
  
Neither of them says anything, though he assumes at this point that it’s okay to hold Wilson.  
  
  
  



	3. i have tried. but you can't,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the beat goes on

PROTECT  
  
He wants to nail a 2x4 across the door.  
  
He wants to put bars across the windows.  
  
He wants to handcuff himself to Wilson.  
  
…He’s hardly sleeping, so worried is he that Wilson is going to sneak out of the room at night and do something. He’s even been tempted to string a line of empty cans across the doorway, just in case.  
  
He’s always felt a bit protective of Wilson, but Wilson has never really seemed to _need_ protecting before. Now it‘s pretty much life-or-death; and even though it’s only been a couple of days, House can feel himself failing him.  
  
It’s never been one of his favorite feelings.  
  
He still doesn’t know how to _talk_ to Wilson about it all. He’s made a few rudimentary attempts, but Wilson either just sits there silently or gives answers that effectively stop the conversations before they start.  
  
So he sits next to Wilson on the couch and stares at the television with him, and orders pizza when they get hungry, and waits for Wilson to speak on his own.  
  
  
  
NOTEBOOK  
  
Late one night, when he still hasn’t gotten to sleep and the clock has moved past two a.m., he reluctantly goes into the living room with the notebook.  
  
The first few pages are covered with an old mess of doodles and scribbles. If they have any significance, House cannot interpret it.  
  
One page about a dozen in, though, was clearly written in anger. The words almost tear the page, and while the message is simple -- a name House doesn’t recognize, accompanied by the rather large words FUCK YOU -- House has the feeling it’s meant to be another suicide note, this one written by a much, much younger James Wilson.  
  
The sick feeling in House’s stomach only gets worse as he turns more pages; some are stuck together with blood, others carry brief (or detailed) instructions for a funeral….Several things one might expect to see in a suicidal young person’s private musings.  
  
Then the writings seem to jump several years, to the handwriting House recognizes so well….There are a lot of names and dates that mean nothing to him; he figures if they are in _this_ notebook they are probably reminders, things that needed to be taken care of…before.  
  
And then there are the notes to him…except they aren’t really notes. Just many, many aborted attempts to say something to him, apparently something very important--  
  
 _House I_  
  
 _House I_  
  
 _House I_  
  
There are at least a dozen, scattered between the strange names and dates; Wilson must have tried over and over to write his feelings in this tattered old notebook.  
  
He imagines Wilson giving up and closing the notebook, then getting up and trudging on with his life; perhaps feeling that he couldn’t leave without saying what he needed to say.  
  
And because of that, those are the saddest and most beautiful two little words House has ever seen.


	4. you just can't guard the dead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> da da da de da

SUPPER  
  
After a few days House is tired of constant takeout; but Wilson still doesn’t want to leave, and he can’t leave Wilson alone. So he ransacks the kitchen, hoping to find _some_ combination of food that can be thrown together to form _some_ kind of meal.  
  
He finds some pasta, and there’s a block of cheese in the fridge that doesn’t smell; surely he can manage this. And with that just-past-the-expiration-date tube of biscuits behind the cheese--why, it’s a four-star delight in the making!  
  
He’s bringing a pot of water to a boil when Wilson comes into the kitchen. He surveys the ingredients House has gathered, then silently starts to slice the cheese into smaller pieces.  
  
House doesn’t say anything, just pours the box of pasta shells into the water.  
  
“I didn’t _know_ if I was going to drive off the bridge,” Wilson says softly, cutting the block of cheddar into even smaller pieces. “When I left the hotel, I mean.”  
  
House slowly stirs the pasta.  
  
“I had seen the opportunity on the way there, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. It just seemed too perfect; like I might never have the chance again.  
  
“And when I drove back that way and saw it, I hit the gas…”  
  
House keeps stirring.  
  
“…But at the last second, I slammed on the brakes. Even still, I almost went over.” He gathers the cheese into a pile. “I sat there for awhile, and then I called you.”  
  
He grabs the salt and leans over House’s arm, shaking some into the pot.  
  
Sensing that that’s all he’s going to offer on the subject, House asks, “Are you glad you didn’t do it?”  
  
Wilson grabs the colander.  
  
House drains the pasta, then watches Wilson add the cheese.  
  
Wilson picks up the spoon and mixes the cheese into the shells.  
  
The oven dings, and House takes out the biscuits. They’re dumped onto two plates along with the macaroni and cheese, and dinner is served.  
  
Wilson carries the plates into the living room while House follows with drinks.  
  
They sit and Wilson starts to eat; but House feels nauseous.  
  
“I’m glad you didn’t do it.”  
  
Wilson’s fork stills in his mound of macaroni.  
  
“No,” House continues, setting his plate on the coffee table. “That doesn’t express it nearly well enough…”  
  
But he doesn’t know _how_ to express it properly.  
  
Hell, he’d almost come apart when Wilson was just across town, not speaking to him. If Wilson died--  
  
For all his skill with words, for all his supposed intelligence and insight…he just doesn’t know what to say.  
  
He takes Wilson’s plate and sets it next to his, then turns Wilson by the shoulders and hugs him. He holds him close, relieved when Wilson's arms wrap around him in response.  
  
Wilson rests his head on House's shoulder and says, “I _am_ glad…” in a tone that leaves an unspoken _but…_  
  
It’s good enough for now. They finish their food, bumping elbows as they eat.

  


TORTURE

House can't help torturing himself.

He stares at Wilson every night as he sleeps, imagining the empty space that might have been there instead.

 

WEIGHT

House has now had over twenty-four hours to get used to the jagged turn life has taken.

He’s lying on the couch, listening to Wilson move about the apartment. If the noise stops for too long, his whole body tenses and he calls out; Wilson replies, and his body relaxes again.

Eventually he calls Wilson into the room. He trudges in, apparently having failed halfway through his attempt to give a shit about how he looked today.

“Come here,” House says, holding his arms out.

Wilson thinks about it, then does his best to lie against House on the couch. There’s not enough room, and he’s lying more on top of House than next to him; they scoot body parts around until Wilson is semi-trapped between House and the back of the couch.

“This can’t be comfortable,” Wilson says, though he makes no move to get back up.

“Doesn’t matter.” House wants to feel Wilson’s weight on him, wants the discomfort, needs the bite of pain where Wilson’s watch scraped his side.

Wilson twists his neck to look up at him, and House hopes that it’s the shadows making his eyes look so dark and tired. There’s just no way House couldn’t have noticed the gray under Wilson’s eyes -- if it was really there and not just a trick of the light.

House holds him close; his left arm is already going numb but he doesn’t care. He came so close to losing Wilson -- to really, seriously, fucking permanently losing him -- that he doesn’t want to stop touching him.

Wilson settles his head against House’s neck and lets himself be pawed, House’s hands moving slowly along his side, chest, neck, hair -- wherever the cramped quarters will allow House to reach.

He doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing he can say.

So he just feels.

 

OPENING UP

House finds Wilson reading on the sofa.

“Hey,” he says softly, sitting down.

“Hey,” Wilson responds, not looking up from his book.

House twirls his cane for a moment before speaking. “I’ve…struggled a bit, myself, in the past…the not-so-distant past, actually. Sometimes it seems--”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Wilson interrupts, still not turning his head.

“I…” House is caught off guard. What he hears is _I don’t want you to tell me this,_

_but if you do I’ll listen,_

_because I always have._

Or maybe he’s just thinking that because he’s hurt. He had thought that a bit of opening up on his part would be good for them both, but Wilson apparently doesn’t feel the same.

He doesn’t say any more, and picks up the remote as Wilson turns a page.


	5. you are the watchman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all healthy men have thought of their own suicide. --camus

LOADED

Sometimes it can be violent.  
  
Once he caught Wilson with the gun, and – after cursing himself for not getting rid of the damned thing completely – immediately tried to grab it away from him.  
  
Again, stupid, heedless – not even aware if the gun was loaded.  
  
He just needed to get it away from Wilson, _now_.  
  
Wilson resisted, insisting he wasn’t going to do anything; they grappled with the gun, each just as intent on holding onto it, until a mistimed jerk sent it slamming into the side of Wilson’s head.  
  
Wilson stumbled backwards, onto the floor. Blood started to pour pretty steadily from the gash, but House was frozen, clutching the gun.   
  
“It’s not loaded,” Wilson slurred.  
  
House confirmed this before tossing the hated thing onto the sofa, then – instead of doing the remotely safe, responsible, doctorly thing – knelt down beside Wilson and pressed a kiss to the wound.   
  
Wilson was too exhausted to respond in any way except to lean into the antiseptic kiss.


	6. and you can't keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i guess a few people are paying attention to this idk might as well post it all. especially before i start a NEW FANFIC *gasps, monocles fly off*

LEAVE  
  
He wants to get Wilson out of here, anywhere, somewhere; maybe the proverbial change of scenery will help Wilson see that sometimes life is worth sticking around for.  
  
Especially since House can't figure out how to express such a sentiment himself.  
  
It's not easy to persuade Cuddy to give them both more leave without telling her exactly why. Obviously it's not a stomach bug anymore; how can she know it's not an emergency truck rally somewhere out west?  
  
He tells her he can't tell her, but it's important enough that if she won't give them the time off he'll quit in order to get it.  
  
That at least seems to convince her of the severity of the situation. She's obviously hesitant to acquiesce, however, so he speaks to her with bare honesty -- something he's rarely done with anyone.  
  
“Please.”  
  
She finally agrees that the fort can be held down, though she insists on some sort of time frame.  
  
He asks for a month.  
  
"You're kidding."  
  
He insists that both his and Wilson's employees can function without them, though he reluctantly agrees to answer his cell phone if his team calls.  
  
She sighs and says okay, and tells him to be careful, whatever the hell is going on....Then, a bit softer, she tells him to take care of Wilson.

 

PACKED

  
House contemplates the suitcases in the hallway. Wilson packed for both of them, and it’s stupid how that small act made House feel so good.  
  
He didn’t jump for joy when House suggested the trip, but he clearly wants to go; and House is just relieved to be able to _do something_ for him.  
  
He still doesn’t know where they’re going, but wherever Wilson wants to be, he’ll get him there.

 

SAP

  
Wilson is already asleep when House goes to bed.   
  
He looks longingly at Wilson’s back…then down a little…then up to his hair.   
  
He wants to bury his face in that hair, wind his fingers through it, grab it as he….  
  
….He shouldn’t be thinking like this. They haven’t had sex since Wilson came back from the conference, and he’s leaving it to Wilson to decide when he feels comfortable.  
  
But House _really, really wants_ to have sex with Wilson right now; to wrap himself around him, bury himself in him, mumble loving words into his skin.  
  
Before his conscience can stop him, he reaches out and runs a hand up Wilson’s T-shirt.  
  
Wilson shifts under his touch, sleepily turning to look at House.  
  
He reaches for House’s shirt and gently tugs on it, pulling House towards him.  
  
Wilson’s mouth is already open when House kisses him; he leans into House’s touch as House clutches him to his chest, his hand now rubbing random circles on Wilson’s lower stomach.  
  
Wilson moves slightly, just enough to start pressing his ass against House’s growing erection. House runs his fingers gently along Wilson’s already strong one, making Wilson break the kiss and reach for the nightstand.  
  
House’s hand trembles slightly as he spreads lube around Wilson’s hole; Wilson is a fragile thing now, something that could break if mishandled.  
  
It’s very much like the first time -- his hand against Wilson’s chest, holding him close as he pushes slowly into him; mouthing Wilson’s neck mindlessly, listening for any sign of discomfort.  
  
Thinking about how he found himself in this situation; why it felt like it had taken so long to get to where he should have been all along.  
  
Wondering when he had become such a sap.  
  
Wilson’s hand rests on House’s hip as he moves; not to quicken or lessen the pace, just to feel.  
  
“House…” Wilson says softly, almost to himself.  
  
House makes an odd sound, something between love and desperation and relief, and pushes Wilson onto his back.   
  
Wilson holds his legs back as House slides back into him.  
  
They look at each other in the dim lamplight. Wilson starts to jerk himself as House speeds up his thrusts, but he keeps his eyes open until he comes.  
  
House holds himself as deep inside Wilson as he can, feeling the effects of Wilson’s orgasm in parts of his body he never would have anticipated.  
  
As Wilson’s breath returns to normal, House pushes his face into his neck and starts babbling nonsense; though the words “love” and “sorry” come out more than once.  
  
Wilson wraps himself around House, seemingly in response, and House’s entire body seizes as he cries out into Wilson’s skin.  
  
Once they separate and the rush is over, House feels that the atmosphere has changed slightly. He doesn’t know if it’s for the better; he doesn’t even know if it’s true.   
  
He’s probably just weirded out by his own emotions.  
  
He looks over at Wilson, who is already falling asleep again.  
  
House doesn’t feel like he’ll ever fall asleep. But then Wilson’s hand snakes over and wraps itself around his arm with a gentle squeeze, and the touch is both a comfort and a sedative.

DRIVE

House has packed the suitcases in the trunk and Wilson in the car.  
  
All that's left to do is choose a destination.  
  
“Anywhere,” he says. “Pick a direction.”  
  
Wilson is silent for a moment, then says, “The coast. South. Though I guess not too far south, that would take too long. How about Virginia Beach? That area?”  
  
House starts the car and they set off.  
  
After twenty miles or so Wilson asks if House has a map; House does not and says he doesn’t need one. Wilson says that yes, yes he does.  
  
After stopping at a gas station, they set off again.  
  
The further they get from Princeton, the more Wilson seems to relax. House even dares hope that Wilson might end up enjoying himself.  
  
For several hours they ramble about this and that; goofy-looking people in other cars, or stupid vanity license plates, or what fast food restaurant they should stop at for sodas, and then burgers, and then milkshakes.  
  
Wilson laughs along with House when he can’t fold the map back up and just ends up shoving it in the back seat.  
  
It’s going remarkably well, until about halfway down the Delmarva Peninsula House realizes what they’re headed for. And he can’t help but wonder if Wilson picked their destination on purpose, if it’s some sort of sick joke or plan.  
  
Part of him knows this is an incredibly stupid thing to think, but he gets increasingly anxious nevertheless.   
  
And of course his leg is really starting to hurt. So now he’s fidgety, wincing, and noticeably silent; and it doesn’t take long for Wilson to notice.  
  
“Is your leg hurting? Do you want me to drive?”  
  
House stammers, unsure how to wants to answer. Wilson frowns, and he stammers even more.  
  
“I, um…I think…I think I’ll be okay…”  
  
“There’s no reason for you to be in pain--”  
  
“No really, it’s okay--”  
  
“What is wrong with--”  
  
Just then Wilson glances at the road sign they’re passing.  
  
 **BAY BRIDGE 60 mi**  
  
It gets very quiet in the car.  
  
After a full minute of silence, Wilson says, “I’m more than a little upset that you think I would do anything with you in the car.”  
  
House’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Well what am I _supposed_ to think?!” he explodes, enraged at Wilson, enraged at himself. “What am I supposed to think about _any of this!_ ”   
  
“Pull over,” Wilson says, and House does so, mainly because his eyes are tearing up in frustration and it’s getting hard to see the road.  
  
Now that he’s had his little outburst, House doesn’t want to say any more. He lets the car idle and stares out the window, the weight of Wilson next to him both a comfort and a disturbance.  
  
“I’m sorry, House--”  
  
House barks/sobs with laughter. “I’m not the one who deserves--”  
  
“-- _but_ ,” Wilson continues forcefully, “it’s hard for me to get used to the idea of you knowing…of anyone knowing. I’m so used to the idea that I don’t feel I’m acting any differently.”  
  
House squeezes his eyes shut. “You aren’t acting any differently. That’s the terrible part.  
  
“I never suspected, never saw a thing, all those years. Some fucking friend.”  
  
Wilson says softly, “I hid it really well…”  
  
“Stop trying to comfort me!” House snaps. “Just…stop,” he adds, the fight drained from him as quickly as it came.  
  
They sit with their own thoughts for a minute, before Wilson says, “ **You** _have_ been acting differently. Even before you knew.”  
  
House’s shoulders sag. “I was trying to…change. Show you I could…I don’t know…care.”  
  
“It’s been a little unnerving, honestly,” Wilson says. House feels even worse until he looks over and sees that Wilson is smiling. “But it’s certainly not an unwelcome concept.”  
  
House slowly smiles back.   
  
“All of this emotion is getting a little embarrassing. You want to drive so I can take a nap?”

BRIDGE

When House opens his eyes, he sees nothing but water. A road, and water. There’s no land in sight, and it feels rather surreal.  
  
Then he turns and looks at Wilson driving, and it feels rather familiar.  
  
“You didn’t sleep very long,” Wilson says.  
  
“Long enough,” House replies with a yawn. He stretches dramatically, his left arm invading quite a bit of Wilson’s personal space (and _accidentally_ knocking him playfully in the head).  
  
Wilson rolls his eyes, and it’s such a Wilsonian gesture that House smiles to himself.  
  
They ride in silence for several minutes. House is awake, but he’s still relaxed from sleep. The feeling of driving over this endless expanse of water, with no end of the road in sight, is almost hypnotizing.  
  
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, staring at the guardrail whiz by. “I won’t ask any more after this.” _For the rest of this trip, at least._  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Are you ever…happy?”   
  
Wilson doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Yes.”  
  
House waits, but apparently that’s all Wilson has to say.  
  
But it’s enough.


	7. the gate shut.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok this is finally done

BOTTOM

He feels pretty good right now.  
  
It’s a lovely hotel room, right on the beach; with the balcony door open it’s like the surf is about to come right inside.  
  
The door’s not open right _now_ , though, because Wilson has him pinned to the bed and there is no clothing in the immediate vicinity. And that’s what feels the best – that it’s the first thing Wilson did when they got here. (Well, technically the first thing Wilson did was bring all their luggage in, but that doesn’t count.)  
  
“Ow!” he hisses when Wilson bites a little too eagerly at his neck.  
  
“Sorry,” Wilson says, breathing heavily. “I just…”  
  
He just kisses House again without finishing his thought.  
  
As their tongues wage war and their hips make peace, House makes the decision he’s been waiting to make that isn’t really _that_ big a decision…  
  
…It really feels like one is all.  
  
As if on cue, Wilson leans over to rummage through his overnight bag. When he presses the bottle of lubricant into House’s hand, House immediately hands it back before he can change his mind.  
  
For a second Wilson looks confused, then looks like he might understand; then with a tilt of his head, he asks House if he means what Wilson thinks he means. House just nervously licks his lips and runs his hands absently down Wilson’s hips and hopes that Wilson doesn’t say anything.  
  
Wilson bites his lip, still unsure. House flips the bottle open and spreads Wilson’s fingers, squeezing Wilson’s right hand until the fingers of his left are coated.  
  
He hesitates one last time, then Wilson’s hand slips down between House’s legs. House tries to steady himself, but when Wilson’s finger brushes against him, he jumps.  
  
Wilson laughs nervously. “I barely touched you.”  
  
“Well,” House huffs, feeling defensive. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’re too _gentle_ for my taste.”  
  
Wilson’s eyes narrow playfully. “And what exactly _is_ your taste in this situation?”  
  
“Shut up,” House mutters. It’s as close as he can come to saying _I don’t know, I’ve never done this before, and I think it’s understandable that I’m a little nervous here, so cut me some slack, but get a move on too, and please don’t make me say more than I have to here._  
  
When he glances back at Wilson, there’s an odd little smile on his face that House can’t help mirroring. The tension is eased enough that he can relax, and this time his reaction to Wilson’s probing is more positive – and more verbal.  
  
“Aaaah,” he breathes as Wilson’s finger moves inside him. Wilson’s eyes are closed, and House takes this advantage of the opportunity to look up at him with not a small amount of wonder. Well, _wonder_ might be a little overdramatic, but damn this feels good.  
  
Wilson pushes another finger into him, and House already wants more. He wants all of it, everything, anything Wilson can give –- but Wilson won’t rush it, no matter how House degrades himself squirming and whimpering.  
  
_Finally_ Wilson decides he’s ready, and after some careful positioning -- _dammit, Wilson, don’t **worry** about the leg right now!_ \-- he’s about to…  
  
House lets out the loudest cry of silence he’s ever made. He knew it would hurt, and it does, it hurts, it hurts, but holy fuck it feels good too and it’s the _idea_ of it, the idea is overwhelming and fucking hell it’s Wilson and Wilson’s alive and he’s fucking –  
  
“House?” Wilson breathes, and House’s thoughts slam to a stop.  
  
“Yeah,” House says in response to the unasked _You okay?_ Because that’s what Wilson wants to ask, that’s what he always asks House, it’s what he’s always worried about, even when House was a dick Wilson worried about him and loved him and even when—  
  
“Ah!” Wilson starts to thrust, stopping House’s thoughts again. “Wait—“ House says brokenly. He closes his eyes and tries to focus; he focuses on his breathing, Wilson’s breathing, Wilson’s skin, Wilson’s hair. He twists his hands in Wilson’s hair, pulling him down for a kiss – a quick kiss, because it folds him in half; even though he really can’t feel anything right now but Wilson inside of him.  
  
Wilson buries his face in House’s neck and stops moving, except for gentle kisses and a trembling hand. He eases them into a more comfortable position, keeping his cock steady inside of House even as he manipulates their limbs without looking. House is immediately more comfortable, more at ease – and not just physically.  
  
He thinks to himself that maybe there really _is_ a reason several nurses hover around Wilson all the time.  
  
“Wilson,” he says, almost inaudibly.  
  
Wilson moves back just enough to look at him. His breathing is unsteady and House can feel his heart pounding; he runs a hand down Wilson’s side, ghosting over their hips. Amazed at everything.  
  
“I think you can move now,” House says softly.  
  
Wilson pushes himself onto his knees, holding onto House’s legs to keep them still. House makes an involuntary noise; which sense is the most overwhelmed, it’s impossible to tell.  
  
Wilson looks down as he slowly withdraws from House’s body, and it’s just too much bare emotion – House wants to yell, tear at the bed sheets, throw a chair. But he keeps himself composed, breathing shallowly as he watches Wilson’s face.  
  
As Wilson’s hips kick forward, he hits House’s prostate; he looks up with a smile on his face, apparently delighted by the sounds coming from House’s throat.  
  
“Oh fuck,” House snaps, starting to jerk himself. It was such a slow burn at first but all at once he feels desperate, he’s almost there already – and of course Wilson takes over, gently pushing his hand aside and stroking House himself, all while keeping up this insanely gorgeous rhythm.  
  
House’s upper body lifts off the bed as he comes, saying Wilson’s name again, fisting the bedspread so tightly his hands will hurt. And _oh God_ he’s tightening around Wilson inside of him, he can feel it, _holy fuck_ \--  
  
Wilson (with an uncharacteristic lack of chivalry) doesn’t give him any time to recover before he starts to shudder, shoving as far inside House as he can and crying out; and _holy fuck_ again, House can _feel_ him, feel him coming, it’s a whole different kind of warmth spreading through him this time—  
  
“Ohgodhouse,” Wilson gasps, blinking down at him in astonishment.  
  
“Oh God Wilson,” House slurs, content. “And _yes,_ ” he adds, at the same time Wilson says “Are you—?”  
  
Wilson pulls out carefully, maneuvering expertly around House’s leg to collapse on the bed next to him. House turns and kisses him; he hopes that will prove to be all the conversation they require about this turn of events.  
  
He pulls back and Wilson smiles slightly at him, his unkempt hair spilled on the pillowcase. He doesn’t speak, and House gratefully settles against him for a nap.

SEAGULLS

It took some doing – walking on sand not being one of House’s strong points – but now they’re settled on the beach, and it’s actually quite tolerable. Nice, even. There are just enough clouds, just enough sunlight, just enough breeze. Plus the beach is completely deserted, except for some loitering seagulls.  
  
House watches Wilson. He’s sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed, the wind ruffling his longish hair. He watches him for a long time, and if Wilson senses it he doesn’t let on. He just lets the wind and the sound of the waves relax him.  
  
House shakes his cane at some encroaching gulls. “I don’t have any food. Piss off.” They screech at him and at each other and finally fly a ways down the beach. Staying close, just in case House is lying.  
  
Wilson smiles, his eyes still closed. Then he lies down, stretching his limbs in the sand before letting his arms fall at his sides.  
  
Sandy underwear wasn’t originally in House’s plans for the day, but he can’t resist lying down next to Wilson. He scoots over a bit to get closer, feeling sand inch up under his T-shirt, until his arm is lying alongside Wilson’s.  
  
He still looks at Wilson, imagining the sand that must be working its way into Wilson’s hair. …. Imagining washing that sand out. …Thinking maybe sandy underwear isn’t such a bad idea after all.  
  
Wilson opens his eyes, staring up at the sky and the seagulls. “I could see you reincarnated as a seagull,” he says.  
  
House snorts. “Really.”  
  
“Flying on the breeze…bobbing in the surf…answering to no one,” Wilson explains. “Being an asshole to people and fellow seagulls alike.”  
  
House looks up at the circling, cawing gulls. “So it’d be like now, except I could fly?”  
  
Wilson smiles wider, and House wants to kiss him. But before he can try, Wilson turns and kisses _him_ ; sand blows out of his hair, making House squeeze his eyes shut.  
  
House wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer, and they kiss until the tide starts to come a little too close.

SAND

“I told you it was worth getting the whirlpool tub,” House says as it fills with water, shaking sand out of his T-shirt.  
  
Wilson makes a noncommittal grunt as he sheds his own sandy clothing.  
  
Determined to maintain the peace they had achieved on the beach, House motions for Wilson to get in. He then rummages in Wilson’s overnight bag for some shampoo.  
  
“My hair isn’t _that_ sandy,” Wilson protests.  
  
House makes a noncommittal grunt of his own as he climbs in next to Wilson, who – despite his words – settles with his back to House, implicitly offering his hair for washing.  
  
House can’t help but smile a little as he arranges his limbs around Wilson. Once he’s comfortable, he squirts a generous dollop of shampoo into his hands and gets to work.  
  
He takes his time lathering up Wilson’s hair, turning it into a scalp massage as much as a shampooing. Wilson leans almost imperceptibly into House’s touch, and House smiles again.  
  
“Time to rinse,” he says, intending to scoop water over Wilson with his hands. But Wilson wordlessly ducks under the water, and for a terrifying moment House is seized with the idea that Wilson intends to drown himself right in front of him.  
  
But Wilson comes right back up, wiping the hair back from his face. He senses the tension in House’s frozen limbs, and turns around. “What’s wrong?”  
  
House can’t speak. He’s thinking of the car, and the bridge, and the water, and Wilson’s face—  
  
“…House?”  
  
House pulls Wilson to him, kissing him desperately. Despite his twisted position, Wilson kisses back, until his muscles protest.  
  
House hadn’t _necessarily_ intended anything sexual to happen in the water like this, but he has to have Wilson. Now. He has to know that Wilson is here, and his, and—  
  
“Ah,” Wilson cries out softly as House pushes two fingers into him. He lifts himself up so that House can better prepare him.  
  
House works his fingers until Wilson starts to whimper, then blindly maneuvers under the water until he’s pushing hard into him, making Wilson hold onto the side of the tub for balance.  
  
“Oh God you feel so good,” House blurts out. He hadn’t meant to say anything, but the warmth of the water and the warmth of Wilson’s body are pulling it out of him.  
  
Wilson moans in response, and House pulls him back against his chest until he’s fully cocooned in House’s limbs.  
  
“I love you,” House says directly into his ear, Wilson’s wet hair rubbing against his face. He thrusts as much as he can into Wilson’s body, held so tightly against him. “You’re everything to me.”  
  
Wilson has stopped moving. “House—“  
  
“I’m sorry I never said it. I should have said it years ago.” House can’t stop, now that he’s started. Not being able to look Wilson in the eye is probably helping. “I’m sorry I never saw how much you were hurting. I’m sorry—“  
  
“House!”  
  
Wilson turns his head to look at him, and House stops.  
  
“I’m sorry too,” Wilson says quietly. “I’m sorry that you think about that every time you look at me.”  
  
House’s heart can’t take that. “I don’t,” he says. “I swear I don’t. But sometimes….”  
  
Wilson extracts himself from House’s grip, then turns around and slowly lowers himself back onto House.  
  
“I love you too,” he says softly, slowly moving his hips. “And I forgive you. Everything.”  
  
House rests his forehead against Wilson’s and lets Wilson’s hips do the work, slowly and slowly until they both shudder with orgasms that touch every inch of their bodies but leave them almost mute.  
  
They dry off and curl up together under the covers, and despite his lingering guilt, House thinks that maybe things will be okay.

FUTURE

For so long he yearned to be here, and now here he is. All the days and nights of loneliness and frustration; the _years_ , the fucking endless _years_ of self-loathing and self-doubt and self-destruction.

  
Is this his reward, then?

No. Nothing so flippant as that.

  
The door is open, and the room is filled with the sound of the water. Quietly, he gets out of bed and goes out onto the balcony.

  
He had felt the tension in House when the front desk clerk gave them a room on a higher floor, but to be realistic it’s only the third floor. And he would hit sand, so—

  
Wilson closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, stopping that train of thought.Wondering if such thoughts would ever stop; wondering if he wants them to. That’s not why he came out here, anyway – though if House wakes up and sees him he’ll probably freak out.

  
Looking down, he finds he really doesn’t want to jump. Low fatality risk notwithstanding.

  
He leans far out over the rail, staring down at the ground; imagines himself falling. Imagines himself falling from a much higher story of a much taller building.

  
But it doesn’t feel the same. Not with something – someone – actually, literally at his back, holding him at from the edge; even if that person is currently asleep.

  
He looks back at the room, though it's too dark to make out much of anything except the chair by the door.

  
He looks at the ocean. He stands there, watching the waves, a breeze softly blowing his hair.

  
Is it really going to be any easier? Just because he's with House...because House knows...won't it maybe be worse? Won't it--

  
Wilson turns around and goes back into the room, slamming the door way too hard for whatever hour of the morning it is, waking House and probably a dozen other travelers.

  
The sound House makes when he startles awake isn't so much a word or exclamation as the noise a drowning man might make upon reaching air. He squints at Wilson in the darkness. "What the fuck?" he says, panicked and panting.

  
"Everything's fine, House," Wilson says quietly, getting back into bed. House is shaking and he knows it's because of him, and what he might have been doing, or thinking; and what he might do or think in the future.

  
He wonders if it's fair to House, to stay. But as soon as he's within reaching distance House is enfolding him in his arms, pressing his cheek close against Wilson's hair. "Promise me you'll tell me if it's ever not fine," he whispers.

  
Wilson mulls it over for a minute. It's not something he can take lightly; for decades his suicide was his and his alone. But it is something that could maybe save him. And what was the point of all of this if not to give a future a shot?

  
"Okay, House," he finally sighs, settling against him. "I promise."

  
"You and me, right?" House adds. Wilson almost smiles at his need for reassurance.

  
"Yeah. You and me."  
  
  
 

**Author's Note:**

> We revert back to Anne Sexton for these chapter titles.


End file.
